CHAPTER I.

To-morrow at daybreak they will go aboard together, Elise Hénin and her little brother Firmin. They have put on their Sunday clothes to say farewell to their mother, who sleeps on the slope of the dune in a corner of the old graveyard. Nine years has the poor woman lain there in the peace of her last sleep—deaf forever to the noise of the tempests which roused her so often, of old, to the vigil of anxious nights.

She went from the cares of life a long time before her husband. He was swallowed up by the sea, which never gave back his body. One night, when the wind was not high—one hardly knows how it came about—he was caught in a fatal current and was lost, with his boat and six companions, in the wild eddies of the most dangerous shoal on that coast. In some shelter for shipwrecked sailors, beneath the wave, he is waiting for a day, perhaps not distant, when a mighty tempest shall stir the depths and, opening his prison of sand, return his body to earth again.

[2]His death brought ruin to his family. Although he was a skipper, yet his boat was all he owned. Earning more or less at the risk of the tides, he was returning from a profitable cruise with a happy heart and a full purse, for he had sold his fish at a good price at the market of Boulogne. The sea had all in its grip—man, boat, and earnings.

From the road that climbed the dune one could see the spot beneath one on the horizon. The color of the sea was lighter there than over the depths, and the rays of the sun made it glisten with a silvery sheen. It seemed so smiling that one would have declared it harmless.

Elise stopped as her thoughts wandered to that accursed gulf. She pressed more closely the hand of her little brother, as a mother who fears for her child’s safety.

For it was she who had brought him up, this twelve-year-old brother, whom she loves for his sturdy figure and his robust health. She has had one idea only, that of making him a good sailor. It was she who sang him sailors’ songs to put him to sleep when little; it was she who carried him, hardly awake, along the dune crests to show him the far-off ships and to direct his first look to what was going on at sea. It was she, too, who took him to the harbor that he might play among the rigging.

Then, when they were old enough, they had gone with their father on his boat, learning to handle it. Elise knew as much about fishing as a sailor. Her father was very proud of her. He had her always aboard, and it was a miracle that she had not been [3]lost with him. But that week she had been kept at home, because Firmin was ill. She wished to take care of him herself, and would not trust him to strange hands. And so they had become orphans, sister and brother, without protection and without bread.

But to-day their fortune seemed assured. They had been engaged on a sloop for the coming herring fishery. Elise had persuaded the skipper, her cousin and godfather, to take them on his boat notwithstanding the prejudice which sailors in petticoats generally inspire. She was as strong as a man and asked less wages, and this was so much in her favor.

For herself it was enough that she was to be with her brother, apart from whom she would have been too unhappy to live.

“I am proud of you,” she said gayly, “you will make a fine ship’s boy. I was afraid to remain at home alone. Come, make haste, we have still many things to arrange for our departure.”

And with a lengthened step she hurried the boy along the sandy dune road. It was high noon. The strong June sun, directly overhead, darted down its burning rays, but the young girl did not appear to feel them. Lithe and alert, she moved along, with figure erect and back slightly arched, in all the vigor of her nineteen years.

Her graceful contour stood out distinctly against the sky. It had little of that masculine strength that marks savage beauties, but under her brown corset and gray skirt one could divine the clear-cut outline which distinguishes the purer races.

[4]Hurrying her brother along, she soon gained the crest of the dune; then she stopped abruptly, with an involuntary start, for at the turn of the road she saw before her the figure of a strapping young fellow, his arms swinging as he walked, and his face pale and a little sad.

“You have frightened us, Silvere. It is not the time for a stroll. Are you expecting any one?”

“Yes, you, Elise. I had an idea that you would come here, and I ventured, in order to have a last word with you. Is it decided that you are to sail to-morrow?”

“Certainly! we have to earn our bread.”

“If you would but consent, I would manage to earn enough for us both. Elise, it breaks my heart to see you injure yourself with men’s work.”

“What would you have? I know no other, nor have I a taste for any other.”

“If you would marry me, you would have only to keep the house. Will you make me wretched by refusing me again?”

“Silvere, I do not wish to give you pain, but it is not right of you to urge me always against my duty. I have told you my determination. I do not intend to marry until the day when my little Firmin shall be of an age to be a real sailor. It is my duty to help him, since I am the same as his mother.”

“We would aid him together.”

“No, he would not be at all happy if he knew that he was an expense to another. And then, I am ambitious that he should become a skipper as his father was. I could not give myself up to this if I [5]married you. When one has a house one should devote one’s self to it.”

“Then you leave me no hope?”

“As I have told you, wait. Give me time to bring up the child. I will not refuse after that.”

“All the same, it is a long time to wait.”

Elise had not let go the hand of her brother, which she held pressed in her own. She felt it stirring, tugging.

“What do you wish, my little man, what troubles you?”

“Bend down, I wish to whisper to you.”

And his lips raised toward his sister’s ear, in a grumbling tone the lad told his trouble. He did not wish his sister’s marriage to be put off on his account. He was old enough to go to sea alone. He pressed his point with an energy one would not have expected in a lad of his years. As he spoke he put on a resolute air, and under his close-cut hair his strong features expressed so vigorous a will that Elise was much disturbed.

“You are a brave boy, but you are too young to go without me. Never mind. I shall not be unhappy as long as we are together and you love me.”

With her sweetest look she smiled at the lad, then, turning toward Silvere, she gave him her hand.

“Silvere, since our engagement is to be long, come with me to the graveyard. Let us exchange our vows over the grave of my mother.”

And pensively, without speaking further, she walked on, supported on one side by her lover while on the other she led her brother.

[6]The graveyard was near at hand. Above its low wall could be seen, lost among dusty tamarisks and brambles already turning brown, some stone tombs and some crosses of worn-out wood, tottering and almost uprooted by the west wind. It was well called the field of the dead, for under the pitiless sun it seemed a desert indeed. Silvere stopped short at the melancholy sight. With an unconscious gesture, he held back the young girl.

“Elise, do not let us plight our troth here. It is too sad.”

“Nevertheless, come. Mother will not be happy if we fail in respect. I have no one but her to advise me, since my father is beneath the sea.”

Along the narrow footpaths she led the young man to the highest point of the cemetery, where there was the least shelter. There, in a forgotten corner, a slab, defaced and broken at the corners, alone marked the spot which the children knew to be their mother’s resting-place.

“Mother,” said Elise solemnly, “since our dead father’s soul is no more with us, it is thy wish which I would obey. Make thy soul pass into mine.”

And on her knees beside Silvere, their two hands joined, she waited for the mother’s blessing to penetrate her heart.

An alkaline vapor rose from the overheated soil, and came suffocatingly to their nostrils. Silvere had a feeling of faintness. He rose, trying to lift Elise, but for some time still she remained at prayer, invoking on her brother and herself the protection of the dead.

CHAPTER II.

It was hardly daybreak when Elise and Firmin appeared on the wharf, pushing before them a wheelbarrow, on which were their sailors’ kits. They were the first to arrive. The tide had gone out and, aground in the mud, the sleeping boats seemed to await in the silence of the dawn the hour for waking. Such of them as were being made ready for sea could be told by the marks of recent overhauling and their newly tarred rigging. Here lay the Bon-Pêcheur, a sloop, broad in the waist but tapering gracefully, and well-designed to cut the waves. All was in order on deck. The closed hatches showed that supplies were stowed away and everything ready.

Elise stopped short. From the head of the wharf, across the masts and rigging, she could perceive the Bay of Somme, which the sun was just softly lighting up. Since her childhood she had known this great clear bay, with its gray outlines softening away into fog. She would not see it again that night. Every day she had come faithfully to give it a look. She loved it, not only when the tide was high and it reflected the brightness of the heavens in its palpitating waves, but when, though bare at low tide, it was still beautiful, with its banks of red [8]sand and its streams of water winding through it to the great sea.

Each day she had seen on the opposite bank the outline of the town of Saint-Valery, raised like a fortress on a rock of verdure. Then she had turned her happy eyes toward her own modest fishing hamlet, which, on this side of the bay, sheltered itself discreetly behind the sandy dunes. She would see none of these things that night. She loved them truly, as one loves one’s birthplace, but she loved also the great sea which, four miles away, marked by a crystal line, all white with foam, the limit of the bay. Elise had often crossed that line in her father’s boat, and during three years of fishing she had been accustomed to sea life, but she had never quitted the waters of the English Channel, and it was in new seas that she was to be through the long hard-worked months of a fishing cruise. Her breast swelled with longing and a vague inquietude, and she let her thoughts wander toward that infinity of heaven and water.

The sands of the bay disappeared little by little under the rising tide, whose surface, swept by ripples, announced a steady breeze. It was an excellent omen. In less than six days they ought to be on the fishing-grounds, a hundred miles north of Scotland.

But, coming back to the thought of her departure, Elise went down from the wharf to the sands, and deposited her burden just under the bows of the Bon-Pêcheur, and, while Firmin went to return the wheelbarrow, she seated herself on her sack, her [9]hands joined, her thoughts wandering to the far-distant region with which she was to make acquaintance. Absorbed in her revery, she did not hear heavy steps behind her, and started under a strong hand which struck her familiarly on the shoulder.

“Elise, you are earlier than the tide. They are good sailors who rise before the fish.”

“Should it not be so, Cousin Florimond? One must take trouble if one wishes to escape it.”

“You are right. That is a good sailor’s rule. Do you know, you look very well under your new sou’wester? The keenest eye could hardly tell you from the other sailor lads.”

“I will be a man when work is to be done, Cousin Florimond. I have no fear of work.”

“Parbleu! All will turn out well if your Firmin does not show himself obstinate. He is a little inclined that way. He does not always do as one tells him.”

“Have no fear, Cousin Florimond, he will obey you as willingly as his father. Surely, that is one’s duty to the skipper.”

“Surely. Besides I shall not favor him more than any other. Fishing is hard work, but it makes good sailors. In three seasons he will understand his business. Then you will be able to leave him alone and talk of a husband. A husband is never lacking to a worthy girl.”

Then, with that rolling step which sailors affect so much on land, the skipper walked to the boat’s stern. He seemed to step with the whole weight of his body upon the ground, but hardly had he felt the [10]guards of the sloop under his hand than he recovered his agility, notwithstanding his great leather boots and his oil-suit. Taking advantage of the rudder-post and of the sloping side of the boat, in three tugs of his arms, and four steps, he hoisted himself on deck. And there, striding about, he was truly superb with his tall figure, his broad shoulders, his curving chest, his strong arms, and his sturdy back. The sailor is beautiful only on his boat.

At that moment Florimond had the bearing which inspires all leaders at the hour of action. He inhaled long draughts of the breeze, and with keen eye he examined the sky to see the signs of the weather.

“Look then, Elise, the weather seems not half bad. One never lies idle when one works with the breeze. Hand over the sacks.” He stretched his arm out to receive them, and then, lying down flat, reached down, seized the girl with both hands and, raising himself all at once, lifted her on deck.

“Now you are one of the crew, Elise. If the others are disagreeable, I will protect you. Every man has his rights on a boat.”

“Thanks, Cousin Florimond, but, as long as I do my work without flinching, they will have no reason to speak ill of me. If they are disagreeable, I will defend myself.”

“Shall not I be there to make them hold their tongues?” said a little voice, behind the young girl, a boy’s voice, bold and confident. It was Firmin, who had returned. He planted himself, with his arms crossed and his head thrown back, before his sister.

[11]“There is one man who talks against us. I have heard him! I will make him eat his words.”

And as if to defy the enemy he awaited, he looked resolutely at the hamlet.

From it the sailors were coming in a body, their wives and children with them. They walked silently beside a cart, which made its way slowly under the weight of their kits. When they reached the boat, there broke out at once the noise of getting aboard and the shouts of farewell. For the tide was beginning to lick the keel of the Bon-Pêcheur, and the women and children ran for safety to the wharf where, crowded together, they awaited her departure. Softly the sea lifted the sloop, which floated like a sea-gull on the wave.

“Hoist the jib and the stay-sail. Hoist the jigger.” And the canvas, forward and aft, spread itself as if to try the breeze.

“Trip the anchor!” And the chain, as the anchor came home, ground against the gunwale.

“Hoist the main-sail!” Two hundred and twenty yards of canvas rose in air by force of hand. All tugged together, Elise among the rest. Knowing that she was watched she strained every nerve; her body grew rigid at the work. “Oh! hiss!” Her voice sounded clear above the hoarse shouts of her companions. “Oh! hiss!” The pulleys groaned under the ropes, and the great sail hung ready to take the wind.

“Give her a full.” The top-sails snapped out. All the canvas was trimmed to catch the breeze, and, set in motion by a shift of the helm, the Bon-Pêcheur [12]sped gayly northward in the freshness and purity of the morning.

But a small boat hailed them. A rope was thrown, and Silvere, climbing up it, quickly reached the deck. He walked straight to the skipper, and in a rough tone explained the reason of his coming. He had an account to settle with Barnabé.

Barnabé was called. He was a hap-hazard sailor, half landsman half seaman, such as are engaged for the herring fishery.

An unruly wag and a great bungler at work, he had not his equal in gathering a crew about him to listen to his bluster. He was brave when occasion called for it, through vanity, and he had acquired the reputation among the fishermen of a man who feared nothing. Although his character was known, he was engaged from force of habit. When one has to choose among landsmen, one man is as good as another.

His quarrelsome tongue spared no one. Scarcely had he learned of Elise’s engagement than he began to trouble the whole village with his threats. Was it right to allow women to steal men’s work? Theirs would be strong arms to handle the canvas in the teeth of a squall! And the night before, in an outburst of drunken speech, he had made threats. They would see if he would allow his bread to be eaten by this Lison. He would rather send her head-first overboard.

THE “BON PÊCHEUR” SPED GAYLY NORTHWARD.

Chap. 2.

As soon as he was awake that morning Silvere had heard these threats, and, changed as they were in passing from mouth to mouth, they alarmed him [13]greatly. His character was sweet and thoughtful; he had thus a tendency to exaggerate the worst side of things, and, lost in fear for Elise, he had run to the pier, but too late. Then he had thrown himself into his boat, urging it on in order to overtake the Bon-Pêcheur and prevent trouble. Like all gentle men, he had over-excited himself that he might appear more strong. When he saw himself face to face with Barnabé, he raised his voice, to intimidate him.

“You were talking of Elise last night. If you dare to trouble her, I will make an end of you when you return.”

“Where do you get a right to defend her? Is she your wife? She is not in love with you, I fancy, you old tub with gaping seams.”

“I speak, because we are betrothed.”

“She has promised herself to you, you great snuffer of the moon? She has, then, a fancy for sallow men only.”

“Be quiet, great blackguard, or I will take down your conceit.”

“Don’t try it, I have my stingers to defend me.”

And Barnabé showed his fists doubled up for attack. Small, but thickset and muscular in proportion, he squared himself on his short legs before the tall man who stood before him, taken aback by his uncertain movements.

A fight appeared imminent. The deck was nearly deserted, the greater part of the crew busying themselves in arranging their effects in the forecastle. Two men stationed in the bow took no [14]notice, busy as they were in managing the jib, while astern, the sailor at the jigger, while he handled his sheet, looked on and laughed like an amateur of fisticuffs. He seemed truly happy at this unexpected exhibition which was coming off so near him. As to the skipper, not being able to leave the tiller, he swore and threatened; then, despairing of silencing the adversaries, he tried to drown their voices, and shouted his orders at his loudest.

“Ready to come about. Let go the jib-sheet.”

And the boat tacked, drawing away at right angles to avoid a perilous set of the current; but all the same the quarrel continued, more clamorous and more deafening.

“Great child of misery, sailor by sufferance, you gape in the seams. You should be careened and calked.”

“Wretched landlubber, ship’s cook, you should remain in your pantry. The fish which has gone ashore is spoiled for the sea.”

“Speak for yourself, you badly salted codfish.”

“Wretched worm.”

In vain the skipper shouted: “Keep away to starboard.” The men no longer heard him, and the jib, remaining as it was, forced the boat in an exasperating fashion to port. The skipper broke out in fury, stamping excitedly, and leaning forward shouted:

“Enough, Silvere, I cannot steer the boat. We are at the harbor bar.”

His shouts mingled with those of the sailor astern, who was urging Barnabé on.

[15]“Hou! Hou! Little one, take a reef in the big fellow’s sail! He is going to run. Overhaul him amidships.”

Barnabé, as if obeying these suggestions, squared himself like an athlete throwing out his defiance.